


There came news of a word

by KipDigress



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Series, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KipDigress/pseuds/KipDigress
Summary: In which Meg Thatcher stands up straight to face her fate and Benton Fraser takes time to come to terms with unpleasant news.





	

1) (April 2001)

Meg Thatcher, otherwise known as the Ice Queen, forced herself to keep the tears at bay. Not that she had many tears left: beaten, tortured, starved, dehydrated, she was now bound, gagged and blindfolded, waiting for the moment it would all end - the pain, suffering, heartache... She'd not let slip a single word of who she really was or what she was doing, in that she'd succeeded, even nothing else had been achieved.

She heard orders given and was unsurprised to be wrenched upright a moment later, hard fingers pulling on her ears, her shorn hair providing no grip. She made a last conscious effort, forcing herself to stand as straight as she could while rifles were loaded and more orders barked. She didn't allow herself to consider any regrets, there were plenty, but she'd come to terms with them in the lonely years she'd spent undercover. She took a last breath, as deep as she could manage, stale air stinging as it passed through her broken nose.

Let me be brave, she thought, let me be brave...

Blue eyes and a quizzical expression that became uncannily assured as a decision was made. Complete honesty in a direct gaze: 'Red suits...' then nothing; the crack of gunfire and the blossoming pain over before they could be fully recognised.

* * *

2)

Constable Benton Fraser sat up sharply in bed, startled from a deep and dreamless sleep. He listened carefully but everything was quiet, nothing out of place. Diefenbaker slept peacefully on the rug, an ear twitching slightly as he chased imaginary prey. Fraser sighed, something was out of place, but he had no idea what, taking a deep breath, he turned over and composed himself to sleep again.

* * *

3) (August 2001)

Months later, Constable Benton Fraser returned from a particularly arduous patrol: the weather had changed suddenly making travel slow. He had not been the only one caught at a disadvantage, many of those whom he had to visit had been struggling with the unexpected conditions and he'd spent more time than he really had to spare helping them. He walked into the detachment, Diefenbaker at his heels, both tired to the bone; all he wanted to do was to sleep, but reports had to be filled in first. Fraser slipped out of his coat and hung it up, Diefenbaker whined when he went to step further into the building, causing Fraser to glance down at his feet.

"Yes, you're right," Fraser said before he knelt down to unlace his boots. He put them neatly under his coat. "Thank you." Satisfied that he was not going to traipse an unreasonable amount of dirt and water into the detachment, he straightened and made his way to his desk. He'd got as far as finding the correct forms and rolling up his sleeves before he was interrupted.

"The sergeant wants to see you," one of the other constables said without any preamble.

"Now?" Fraser asked, a little surprised, paper reports were usually at least glanced over before actions were discussed.

"Yes."

Fraser sighed and slipped his feet into the spare pair of boots he kept under his desk. Diefenbaker looked up for long enough to make it clear that he was quite comfortable on his rug next to Fraser's chair. Making his way slowly across to the sergeant's office Fraser wondered what this could be about. He knocked gently on the door.

"Come in, Fraser," the sergeant called out, and Fraser obeyed, closing the door quietly behind him. "Good to see you're back in one piece, this is Jaques Temerille, he says he has something of importance to speak to you about," the sergeant explained, indicating a small, thin man with sharp grey eyes behind rimless spectacles and greying hair, cut short. "I will leave you in peace," he added, leaving them alone.

"Constable Benton Fraser?" Jaques Temerille asked, his accent matching his name.

"Yes, Monsieur Temerille," Fraser confirmed, standing at ease, "I hope you have not been waiting long," he apologised, "I was due back three days ago."

"Not at all, not at all," Jaques said airily. "Nearly two years ago, you transferred here after a six month sabbatical following over four years as assistant liaison officer at the Canadian Consulate in Chicago."

"Yes," Fraser replied, wondering where this conversation was going.

"Your commanding officer for the last three of those years was one Inspector Margaret Thatcher," Jaques continued. "Are you aware of what she did after the trial of Mr. Muldoon?"

"As far as I am aware, Inspector Thatcher joined the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. I have not heard from or of her since, and have not expected to," Fraser said, guessing the man's next question.

"Very good," Jaques said before he pulled a card out of his pocket, which he handed to Fraser.

Fraser examined the card: it was a photographic identification card: apparently Jaques Teremille was a moderately senior officer in the CSIS. He forced his face to remain still as he handed the card back with a nod.

"You must be wondering why I am here," Jaques remarked.

"I must admit that I am somewhat curious, but you will no doubt tell me in good time," Fraser stated simply. Trepidation started to fill him as he watched Jaques take a definite breath and square his shoulders before he spoke again, that sort of preparation usually premised bad or unwelcome news.

"I regret to inform you that Margaret Thatcher is deceased in the service of her country," he said formally, watching Fraser's unmoving face, noting that the only sign of emotion was one slow blink. "She had no immediate family at the time of her death and you are the major beneficiary of her will. She also left you a letter," Jaques added more gently.

"Does anyone know the contents of the letter?" Fraser asked.

"No, we do allow our operatives a small amount of privacy with regards to the documents that will be passed on in the case of their death," Jaques explained with a faint smile. "Margaret Thatcher could be trusted to be discreet on that count."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Fraser said stiffly, taking the two envelopes that were held out to him. The first, clearly the will, was unsealed and bore Inspector Thatcher's full name - Margaret Ruth Thatcher - printed on the front; the second, smaller envelope, was sealed and bore his name in her neat handwriting. "Is there anything that I need to do regarding the will?" he asked, focussing on facts.

"There will be some forms to sign in due course, but it should be pretty straightforward," Jaques said, and Fraser nodded. "I will leave you to yourself," he added a moment later, "it would be appreciated if you could say as little of this matter as possible."

"Understood," Fraser said, then nodded once and opened the door to let the CSIS officer out of the office. A moment later, the letter slipped inside the envelope containing the will, Fraser too left the office. He put them carefully in his jacket pocket and resumed his seat at his desk just as the sergeant waved Jaques Teremille out the door.

"Fraser, You OK?" the sergeant asked, seeing that Fraser's face wore a more than usually serious expression.

"Yes, sir," Fraser said shortly.

"Monsieur Teremille said that he had had to deliver some bad news regarding an old friend of yours," the sergeant said sympathetically, "take a week off if you need to."

"Thank you, sir," Fraser said, "I might do that."

"Good man," the sergeant said, shaking his head sadly as he returned to his office; even after nearly two years, Fraser was a closed book to everyone at the post: serious, diligent and uncommunicative.

Fraser settled himself in his chair to complete his reports. Dusk fell, and still he worked, Diefenbaker quiet beside him. It was nearing midnight when he finished, the detachment empty and silent. He stretched, checked that he'd not missed anything and pulled out one more form. Filling it in quickly, he left it on the top of the pile: everything was in order and he had six days off. He loosened his tie, slipped into his jacket, left his spare boots under his desk and turned off the lights as he went out. Pulling on his boots and coat, he settled his stetson firmly on his head.

After a last look around, he stepped out of the building, Diefenbaker at his heels and locked the door.

"Come on, Dief," he said softly, "we're going home." Diefenbaker whined, unimpressed. "No, home, my father's cabin." They walked round the side of the detachment, and Fraser checked that spare fuel, sleeping bag and dog food were in their places in the back of his old jeep. He climbed into the driver's seat and Diefenbaker hopped nimbly into the back. Confirming that he was starting with a full tank of fuel as he turned the engine on, Fraser drove carefully out from between the other parked cars and sped out of the town.

Six hours of driving later dawn was breaking and he pulled over at the side of the road: this was as far as they could bring the jeep, the last few kilometres would be done on foot. He gave Diefenbaker half a bowl of food and they set off: he didn't have a pack, didn't need one, as he kept his cabin fairly well stocked since he could visit fairly easily. The will and the letter weighed heavily in his jacket pocket, but Fraser was determined to not look at them until he was home.

* * *

4)

Fraser stepped into his cabin and hung his coat and jacket by the door. He finally took off his tie, swapping it with the will and letter in his jacket pocket. He set the two envelopes on the table before turning his back on them to open the shutters. That done, he settled himself in a chair, elbows on the table, and stared at the two envelopes lying in the sunlight streaming through the now unobscured windows.

"Oh dear," he breathed sadly, as his thoughts settled and he began to understand what Margaret Ruth Thatcher's death meant: very little on the one hand, but a vague, improbable possibility had been extinguished forever. The only other time he'd felt so lost and sad had been after his father had been murdered: then, at least, he'd been able to mourn; Inspector Thatcher's passing would be kept quiet, and any particular display of sadness on his part would not be appropriate anyway; they had never been anything more than colleagues.

He ignored the will, reaching instead for the envelope that bore his name. He checked it carefully; as far as he could tell, no attempt had been made to open it after it had been sealed and he could only assume that she had sealed it. He pulled out his knife and slit open the top.

One sheet of plain paper, filled with her neat handwriting. Finding the start, he commenced reading:

'18th November 2000

'Dear Ben,

'Part of me wishes that you will never have occasion to read what I am about to write, since if you have been put in possession of this letter, it means that I am dead. Be assured that this is a choice that I have made, and if I have run from one thing, I have at least run to another.

'There is so much that I wish I could say, but even now, I cannot find the words. The important things have long been acknowledged, yet I cannot leave without at least trying to make some sort of apology. You are one of the finest police officers I have ever met and, although I may not have been able to say so at the time, it was an honour serving with you; there are few people of whom I can even claim to think higher of than I do of you.

'There are truths that sometimes cannot be expressed until death; our relationship was determined by an adherence to unspoken rules and expectations, many times have I wished that it was not so, yet any type of dishonesty without very good reason is counter to the rules by which you live, and which are so much a part of you. And I would not wish to alter that, no matter how inconvenient it may be. The few times we did manage to approach the dangerous ground in which personal and professional commitments could come into conflict were all characterised by a brush with death - either our own or someone else's.

'In this case, I believe I am more at fault than you - you reminded me when you could, yet I always drew back, afraid. Though what I had to be afraid of, I do not know.

'Even at the end of all things, expressing how I feel is difficult; sometimes I hardly know how I feel, sometimes I don't want to know. Yet... this is important... know that I love you, have loved you for a long time, but duty is often inconvenient and is always more important than either of us.

'Do no stand at my grave and weep, for in all likelihood I will have no grave. Be the best you can, and know that I wish you all the best for a full and happy life: you of all people deserve that.

'With all my love, Meg.'

The last few lines were slightly smudged: clearly Fraser was not the only one who had teared up by that point. He refolded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. Nothing had changed, the dull ache in his chest that had started when Teremille had told him of Inspector Thatcher's death was still there; time only would help.

* * *

5)

Diefbaker whined, padding over to rest his head on Fraser's thigh when no notice was taken of him. Fraser stroked his fur gently, unable to trust his voice. Another whine and Fraser stood, placed the envelope back on the table and wandered outside. He sat on the steps, gazing blankly out at the forest nearby, Diefenbaker by his side. After a long silence, Diefenbaker yapped.

"Yes, you're right, I am being morose, but she's dead," Fraser murmured.

Another whine from Diefenbaker.

"No, Inspector Thatcher," Fraser said, earning him a soft growl and a disgruntled look.

"Manners; do not speak ill of the dead," Fraser reprimanded.

Diefenbaker sighed and rested his head on Fraser's shoulder. Fraser half turned towards him and twisted his hands in the old half-wolf's fur.

"It's just you and me now," he whispered, his voice cracking before he hid his face in his hands.

Diefenbaker stayed still, not really understanding the cause of Fraser's distress, but knowing that the best he could do was stay still and submit. A while later, cried out, Fraser stood and returned to the cabin. He put down a bowl of food for Diefenbaker, but made nothing for himself. He put both the envelopes back in the pocket of his uniform jacket, knowing that he should look at the will but putting it off, brushed his teeth, changed, and stretched out on his bed.

"Good night, Diefenbaker," he said as he closed his eyes.

Five days later, Constable Benton Fraser returned to his detachment, his step assured, his dress neat. If anyone had known him well enough to notice, they would have seen a sadness and a strain in his eyes that had not been there a week before. But Constable Benton Fraser was not easy to get to know: a living legend, yet still a constable after nearly twenty years on the force, there were few people who were not daunted by his reputation or put off by his aloof manner before they had known him long enough to overcome his habitual reserve. None of his current colleagues fell into that category.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title: First line of 'A Disaster' by Ted Hughes, from 'Crow: the life and songs of the crow'. A poem - or lyric prose - published in 2015 is entitled 'Grief is the Thing with Feathers' is based on the premise of a crow visiting in a time of grief - the idea of crows related to grief as well as the battlefield started me in my search for the title.
> 
> 1) 'Lonely years undercover' - mirroring Ray Vecchio's comment in 'Call of the Wild'.  
> 'Let me be brave' - Clara Oswald in Dr Who 'Face the Raven', this was written before the title was decided upon; the raven predates the crow in the development of the theme.  
> The first time Fraser says 'Red suits you.'
> 
> 2) The fact that this is so short determined the format as a one-shot in five parts.
> 
> 3) The choice of Ruth as Meg's middle name is a result of familiarity with Arthur Ransom's Swallows and Amazons: Nancy Blackett, captain of the Amazon, is Ruth, but Amazon Pirates are ruthless.
> 
> 4) 'At the end of all things' - Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King.  
> 'Do not stand at my grave and weep' - title and first line of sonnet by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
> 
> 5) 'It's just you and me now' - similar to Randall Bolt's: 'It's just you and me now, Inspector Thatcher' in 'All the Queen's Horses'.
> 
> Recognisable characters are not my invention!


End file.
